


Living In Blue

by itendswithz



Series: Heart of Stone [3]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Canonical Character Death, M/M, Major character death - Freeform, Stiles lives, Stilinski Family Feels, Tags to be added
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-13
Updated: 2016-01-28
Packaged: 2018-05-01 09:54:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,978
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5201525
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/itendswithz/pseuds/itendswithz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The curse is broken. But happy endings are not always that easy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Breaking a curse

**Author's Note:**

  * For [acuisle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/acuisle/gifts).



> I'm going to speak at a conference on Saturday (I'm so nervous hahaha) so I wanted to get this up before then. The next part will come soon, promise.
> 
> This is dedicated to acuisle, who has waited 2 years for Stiles to have a happy ending. Sorry you'll have to wait just a little bit longer!

When Stiles blinks, it feels as if a million pieces of sand are stuck in his left eye. He can't even feel his right eye and that thought alone makes him scramble to touch to his face. But when he tries to lift his arms, a strange weight holds him down. 

His second blink ends with the sand tumbling out of his right eye and blurry shapes moving in his left. His brain screams to breathe but the strange weight crushing his limbs tight around his chest also blocks his airways. He wants to gasp for oxygen but there's nothing there. Stiles has a flashback of what it was like nearly drowning with Derek in the school's pool.

"Sti... Can...alive," a distant voice whispers but Stiles can't process the meaning fully. The shapes are becoming less blurry and shadowy and more obtuse and colorful. It's like seeing the world as a Picasso painting and it's giving Stiles vertigo. That or the lack of oxygen.

Somehow in the midst of the chaos, Stiles' brain figures out that the violent red he's seeing is coming from Alpha eyes. It should be terrifying. A strange alpha is holding him while someone is wondering if stills can be alive, but those red eyes are oddly familiar. Comforting.

There's a loud cracking sound followed by ardent swearing but he's too exhausted to care. If this alpha wants information on the pack, then he's going to have to wait for Stiles to wake from his nap.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

The second time he wakes up, Stiles instantly knows where he is. The scent of disinfectant and forced clean air has been burned into his memory since he was eight. Beacon Hills Hospital hasn't changed in ten years.

He doesn't move, body still exhausted from whatever latest disaster the pack has survived. Just lets the sounds of a gentle IV dip, the light exhale of a sleeping person and the squeaks of sneakers in the hallway carry him to a state of mental calm. Stiles doesn't even fight the memories of his mom when they start to flood in - instead he shifts away from the horrible ones and focuses on the happy times. Playing cards when she had good days, eating red jell-o with Scott, reading the pamphlets left in the waiting area while the doctors did their pointless tests.

When he can't avoid the memory of her grabbing him and screaming about how he was the devil’s curse, Stiles opens his eyes.

His dad is flopped in the nearby chair, head lolled back into a painful angle. Stiles can't recall why he's in a hospital bed, again, but it must have been something bad if his dad is staking out the bedside.

Out of his uniform, the sheriff looks thinner, older than Stiles remembers. For some reason, Stiles can’t seem to look away from where his dad’s ragged ACDC t-shirt hangs limp over the buttons of his jeans. It wasn't too long ago that Stiles would have seen a slight pudge there.

Stiles wants to credit the strict diet he implemented but he knows it's more likely due to the stress of knowing supernatural creatures exist. Stiles trails his eyes up to where his dad's arm extends to the hospital bed, hand draped over the blankets near Stiles' left leg. It's too similar to when his mom was in a bed and his dad had a night off that Stiles looks away in shame. He knows that being in the pack is killing his dad slowly, but the thought of not having the pack is unacceptable.

Using just the light from the various monitors and muted television, Stiles looks around the room focusing on where Scott is curled on the second chair available to visitors. He smiles at the thought of his best friend also staking out Stiles' latest hospital stay. The teen has his legs on the seat with his curly, brown hair billowing over his muscular arms and the left arm cushion of the chair. Scott looks young, like when he was a small child waiting for Melissa to end another night shift. If Stiles was the kind of person to reflect on the parallels of his and Scott's lives, he would have stay watching his best friend sleep for hours.

But Stiles is a man of action so he does what he always does when he catches Scott sleeping. Lending forward, Stiles snakes his right arm back and grabs his weapon. He's weaker than normal, but pulling up and back isn't a Herculean task for him. Channeling all his lacrosse practice, Stiles releases his grip as his arm arches. The launch is perfect; Coach would be proud.

The large, fluffy hospital pillow is the perfect size to smack Scott's entire head, bouncing off the wolf comically before hitting the floor behind the chair.

"Asshole," Scott huffs before lifting his head. "I can't believe you want to start a pillow fight right now." He's whispering but Stiles can hear him just fine over the beeping of machines.

An awkward silence looms, before Stiles speaks again. "What.." his throat protests as he dry swallows.

Stepping closer, Scott lifts a little plastic cup with clear water and a tiny straw up to Stiles' lips. "Don't even try," Scott says with a smirk. "Just drink first and I'll answer all your questions after your dad wakes up."

"I'm awake," the sheriff says pushing up from the chair. He looks torn for a second but makes whatever decision he was internally battle when he settles down on Stiles' empty side, takes the cup away from Scott with his left hand and pets Stiles' hair and face with his right.

It should be wrong, getting pet by his dad in the middle of the hospital but Stiles closes his eyes and basks in the warmth of the attention. Almost all of his favorite men are in one room. Just missing the stubborn ass who hates hospitals just as fiercely as Stiles.

"Where's Derek?" he asks once he finishes the cup.

Scott and his dad share a look before his dad speaks. "We agreed. You answer pack questions, I answer living questions."

He turns an eye to Stiles. "You're grounded."

Stiles huffs a laugh. Like being grounded has meant anything to him before. He's about to repeat his question when his dad stands and heads to the door.

"Dad?" his voice comes out small, scared.

"Don't worry kid, just have to take care of business," the sheriff motions to the bathroom in the corner. "You'll understand when you're older." He spares a final glance at Stiles before closing the door.

The room is quiet for a second before Stiles turns to face Scott, question clear on his face.

"He's splashing his face with water and swearing," Scott says. "We were all worried about you Stiles. If it wasn't for Lydia..." He looks away.

"What aren't you telling me." Stiles says. It's not a question and Scott knows it. "Where's Derek."

"Stiles... How much do you remember?"

Stiles stares at Scott. Never in their friendship have they kept secrets. Not since third-grade when they cut their hands with scissors and smeared bloody palms together. But Scott evading the question is a clear violation of that pact.

"Scott, what aren't you telling me." He repeats louder, letting some of his angry bled into the question.

Scott has the decency to look ashamed, but before he can answer a nurse is storming into the room.

"You should have alerted us when he woke up," she says pointly to Scott before approaching Stiles' right side. She pushes a button on the bed before checking his vitals. Cold fingers press into the soft side of his neck and Stiles swears he hears Scott growl before his best friend visibly calms himself and steps back.

The nurse doesn't seem to notice. That or she ignores it outright. Her eyelashes look soft when she blinks before she pulls the stethoscope off her neck and places the metal circle over Stiles’ heart. She writes down whatever the results are, using the light from the muted TV screen to guide her note-taking.

Stiles hears someone enter the room but is momentarily blinded by all the lights turning on. The nurse mutters something under her breathe but turns to the woman who entered. "Doctor, vitals are within normal range." She smiles once at Stiles before leaving.

The doctor replaces the nurse, but stays a good two steps aways from the bed. "Hello, I'm Dr. Maheswaren," her Jersey accent a little thick but easy to understand. "Can you tell me your name?"

Stiles wants to roll his eyes but he knows the drill. Since he passed out, it stands to reason that he could have a concussion. "Stiles Stilinski. Age 18. President: Barack Obama. I don't know the date."

"Hmmm," the doctor hums while she jolts notes down on a pad of paper. She looks up before pointing a pen at Scott. "And who's this young man?"

Stiles does roll his eyes at that. "Scott McCall. Age 17. Acing all his classes, deeply in love with girlfriend and if you look closely, you can see that his jaw is a little uneven."

She scribbles some more notes while humming again.

“Okay, last question,” She says not smiling at Stiles, just letting her face fall naturally. It’s oddly relaxing - she has no expectations. “What’s my name?”

Stiles stares at her for a few seconds. “Umm… Dr. Marshware? Ma-harsh-wa? Mahayin. Was that a trick question?”

The doctor laughs once, then says. “Maheswaren. Your memory is intact, that’s a good sign. Now let’s check limbs. Raise your right arm.”

Stiles exhales and raises his right arm as high as he can, creating a nearly straight line fingers pointed to the ceiling. He beats her to the next order and raises his left arm to mirror the right. The sharp squeak of the sheriff’s shoes makes Stiles turn his head but his dad just walks over to the chair Scott vacated and plops down.

“Okay Mr. Stilinski,” Dr. Maheswaren says interrupting Stiles’ thoughts, “lower your arms.” Once he complies, she moves to the foot of the bed and continues. “Can you raise your left leg?”

Stiles tries to raise his leg but the limb doesn’t move. He tells himself to move the leg but it stubbornly stays still. Panicking, Stiles tries to move his right foot but nothing happens again. He can feel Scott moving closer but Stiles puts a hand up to ward him off. “Doctor?”

She hums again while writing. When she looks up, she isn’t smiling. Again just letting her face fall naturally, but this time it isn’t comforting. It’s unemotionally and reminds him of the doctors reports after his mom’s test results came back. Stiles feels a chill climb up his spine.

“Mr. Stilinski you’ve been in a coma for three years,” she says without hesitation. “You have nerve damage in your legs. It’s unlikely you’ll ever walk again.”

“Priyanka!” Scott yells. “We agreed to not just tell him, we were going to ease him into it.”

Dr. Maheswaren angles her body to face Scott without moving her feet. “Frankly Mr. McCall, your wants are irrelevant. Mr. Stilinski is my patient and I will not lie to him.”

Stiles ignores the fight Scott and the doctor enter, instead letting what she said wash over him. _Three years._ He looks around the room again, absently taking in Scott’s moving hands, the doctor’s stern stance. He makes eye contact with his dad and **sees** the changes. The wrinkles, the haunting pressure of losing Stiles for three years.

“Three years,” he whispers. Stiles knows he’s not registering the loss of his legs, his brain denying it for now. He doesn’t fight against that though - there’s already so much to focus on.

“Where’s Derek?” Stiles asks again, for the third time in an hour.

When no one responds, Stiles repeats himself louder. “Where’s Derek?”

The doctor quiets, obviously not knowing who Derek is or where he might be. Scott looks away again, shame coloring his every move. 

But it’s his dad that answers, looking straight at Stiles. “We can’t find him.”

The words reverberate in his skull as all the pieces start to fall together. _I was in a coma for three years. Derek is lost. I’ll never walk again. **I’ll never walk again. Derek is lost.**_

“Derek.” Stiles says once, quiet. Barely a whisper. 

“Stiles. We’re…” Scott starts to say but Stiles doesn’t want to listen.

“Derek.” He says again, louder. 

“Derek. Derek. Derek,” his voice raising each time the word slips out until Stiles is yelling. “Derek! Derek! Derek!”

A part of Stiles realizes he’s thrashing his upper body. A part of him understands the loud beeping in the room is because the machines hooked up to him are responding to his oncoming panic attack. But the part that’s in control ignores everything except the need to hold his alpha boyfriend. “Derek! Derek! DERRRREEKKK!!”

Dr. Maheswaren reacts the fastest, rushing to the hallway. Stiles doesn’t know what she yells, but a team of nurse rush in, pushing Scott and his dad out of the way. He doesn’t understand what they’re doing until he feels the pinch of a needle and the rush of the knock out drug flooding his system.

He fights it though, still calling for Derek even as the room fades to black. “Der…” is the last sound Stiles hears before nothingness consumes him.


	2. Three years and nerve damage later

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS!!!
> 
> Please note that the Major Character Death tag is in place. This is Teen Wolf, not everyone lives. Also, I, the person who wrote this, cried when I was proofreading it. So be warned - this series is the saddest thing I've ever written. Don't read this when you're alone.

Waking up in the hospital the second time doesn’t make Stiles feel any calmer or happier. At least he isn’t alone, even if he doesn’t recognize the petite Asian woman reading one of those trashy romance novels - the kind with a shirtless man on the cover. Stiles can see a kilt and flexing muscles but he ignores it to focus on the girl. 

She’s biting her lower lip in anticipation of whatever’s happening in the story, her dark eyes flying across the page, absorbing the text. A leather jacket hangs over the back of the seat, matching the blue jeans to create a punk-rock look. But the black, long-sleeved shirt with pink skulls wearing red bows stretching over an oval belly contrasts with that image enough that Stiles feels uncomfortable labeling her a ‘rebel without a cause.’

Without looking up, she flicks the page. Somehow the movement causes the sole blue streak in her hair to fall over her left eye and when she pushes the offending strand out of the way the diamond on her finger catches in the afternoon sunlight. Stiles racks his brain trying to place her but he draws a blank. He knows he should say something but he wants Derek, wants his dad. Not a stranger.

He closes his eyes, trying to will his family to walk into the room. It doesn’t work, especially when the woman speaks up.

“I heard the sigh,” she says, laughter hiding in her tone.

Refusing to engage, Stiles fakes a snore. He doesn’t expect the laugh nor for it to be followed by a quiet “fuck.”

He opens one eye to see her tossing the book on the now-empty seat. She places one hand on her obviously pregnant belly and motions to the bathroom. “Have to pee every time I laugh,” she says smiling. “My advice, don’t get pregnant.”

She half-walks, half-waddles to the bathroom before closing the door behind her.

Stiles doesn’t know what to think so he looks around the room, familiar in the way all hospital rooms are the same. The analog clock hanging on the wall directly across from the bed reads 1:32, so Stiles figures he was out for 12 hours. Hospital meds usually keep him under longer than most people so it doesn’t surprise him to see how much time has passed. 

Twenty minutes of Stiles counting multiples of sevens to distracting himself are gratefully broken by the woman still half-walking, half-waddling back to her seat. She drags it forward a bit before picking the book up again. She doesn’t read it, instead tucking it into the space between her and the chair’s arm.

“I guess I should introduce myself,” she says with a small smile.

“Probably. Unless you’re hear to say I slipped back into the coma and it’s twenty years later.” It comes out darker than he means.

Her smile wanes a bit but she valiantly ignores the comment. “I’m Kira,” she says. “Scott’s wife.” Stiles feels his head shake in shock, knows he must be making the stupidest face possible but Kira doesn’t stop. “And this,” she says rubbing her belly, “is Gabrilla Emiri McCall.”

“Gem,” Stiles says.

“Yep. Scott insisted.” There’s a moment of silence that makes Stiles itch but Kira fills it before he can say something. “I know you have a lot of questions but it might be easier if I just told you what’s happened in Beacon Hills since you..." she trails off, obviously awkward about discussing Stiles' coma.

He lets it go for now, more curious about the changes she alludes to. "Are you going to say anything or are we just gonna stare at each other?" He says, once it becomes clear she isn't pausing to gather her thoughts.

Kira frowns a little, but begins. "When Derek killed that witch," she says dropping her voice a little and tilting her head to watch the room's entrance. "She turned you into a statue. You have to understand Stiles, you weren't in a coma. That was the only lie we could think of once the curse was broken."

She makes eye contact with him and Stiles wishes he could remember what she's talking about. He has a vague recollection of a witch hunting small children but he didn't know Derek killed her.

Kira doesn't seem to understand his predicament though because she continues, "You died Stiles. Actually, physically died. The pack, your pack, felt you die. You know what happens when a werewolf's mate dies, right?"

Stiles knows. He remembers that month Peter had terrorized the town, remembers Derek whispering family secrets to him. His mind betrays him, creating images of Derek gone insane and hurting random people. "What happened to Derek?" He hates how quiet his voice is.

"He went feral," Kira says, words ripping wounds open. "He ran away from town, he's avoiding other packs and civilization but we can't find him."

She stops for a second, squeezing her eyes shut and gripping the chair arms tightly. "Sorry, she's a kicker.

"But Derek. After he went feral the territory was invaded by another pack. Scott tried to stop them but it was hard. A hunter, four werewolves and a banshee does not an army make. You-"

"A banshee?" Stiles interrupts. _Who's a banshee?_

"Oh," a flush of embarrassment creeps up Kira's face. "Umm... I should have given you a run-down of the folks in Beacon Hills. There's the werewolves you already know, plus a few Scott bit. Plus th-"

"What do you mean "Scott bit"?"

“Oh, umm. Scott’s an Alpha now. It was-”

“What.”

“Stop interrupting!” Kira snaps, right hand coming up as if to block Stiles’ words. Tiny sparks jump from finger to finger in the most badass, threatening display of whatever-the-fuck she is.

Kira seems to realize she’s electric-bending (What, she could be the Avatar. At this point, Stiles is willing to believe anything) a second or two later, so she shakes her hand roughly, letting the sparks fade into nothing.

“Sorry.” A faint blush creeps across her face again before she continues. “Scott became a True Alpha - a werewolf with such force of will he didn’t need to kill to gain power - and was able to defend the territory.

“I wasn’t living in Beacon Hills at the time, but it wasn’t safe. People died. Both regular residents and supernatural people.” She looks away for a second and Stiles dreads hearing what she has to say next, but Kira straightens her shoulders and looks directly at him.

“Two members of your pack were killed, Stiles. Erica Reyes and Vernon Boyd died.”

She stops, letting Stiles understand her news.

“Erica…” he whispers, thinking of her blond hair and devilish grin. He doesn’t remember the last time he called her Catwoman.

“I’m sorry Stiles,” Kira interrupts his thoughts. “Scott was able to save all of Beacon Hills from the invaders, but he couldn’t save his friends.”

There’s a stillness in the air and Stiles can’t stop himself from thinking _if I had been_. He shakes the thought away. He knows that leads to madness - all the therapists said so after his mom's funeral. 

“Stiles,” Kira says lightly gaining his attention. “Do you know what a kitsune is?”

“Mythical Japanese fox spirit,” he answers on auto-pilot.

“Not so mythical,” Kira responds, flashing her eyes gold. “Kitsunes have one enemy, nogitsunes. Dark kitsunes that fed on chaos and pain.

“The turmoil in Beacon Hills was large enough it attracted a nogitsune. My family moved here to hunt it down. When we discovered there were werewolves already living here, we teamed up to stop the demon. It’s how I met Scott.” Her blush returns but Kira ignores it. “It took a few months to tracking the nogitsune down. It kept jumping hosts. But we cornered it and the hunter, Allison, was able to trick it. The demon possessed her, but,” she stops exhaling slowly, “But she had consumed foxglove beforehand.”

Stiles stares at her, not understanding what she isn’t saying.

Kira must figure it out though because she says, “Foxglove is poisonous. She-”

“No.” Stiles says softly, but it echoes loud in the room. 

_It can’t be… Allison..._

It feels like sophomore year, paralyzed by kanima venom and forced to listen as people he calls family are getting slaughtered. The machines attached to him beep loudly, reacting to his heart beating faster.

“Stiles, I’m so sorry,” Kira says gently. He can tell she doesn’t know how to handle this, that she’s trying her hardest. But it brings little comfort to him now.

“I know this is a lot to take in but we’re almost done.” She waits for him to nod before continuing. “Her sacrifice saved everyone. No one knew how to stop the nogitsune, just trap it. But Ally found a way. She was a true hero.”

The silence feels suffocating but Kira must know something about losing loved ones because she keeps talking, preventing the silence from becoming all-consuming. “With the demon gone and the Argent heir...Beacon Hills became a sanctuary of sorts. 

Supernatural beings could live here without fear of being hunted. Scott made sure no one else would have to suffer because of who they were. He set up interviews, screening checks. He’s doing something miraculous,” she blushes again, “And people are coming. They’re hearing his call for change and they’re responding.

“Cliodna MacCarthy, the oldest living banshee in the world, heard about Beacon Hills and traveled 5,000 miles to see for herself what was happening,” Kira starts speaking faster, excitement bleeding into her voice. “When she heard about the death curse, about you being a statue, she fixed it. She knew how to break it. She saved you.”

It’s clear that Kira thinks Stiles should be happy. That he should be excited to be alive but he’s not.

Allison, Erica and Boyd are dead. No one knows where Derek is. Scott’s an alpha. Everything is different.

She waits for him to respond though. The moment stretches until Stiles speaks, “What happened to my legs?”

Kira’s smile wanes at the question but he doesn’t care. She isn’t his friend and he needs information.

“We don’t know. Something happened before the curse was completely broken and the marble around your legs cracked instead of dissolving. Magic-”

Kira stops, snapping her head to the door. Stiles looks over to see Melissa McCall walking in, reading a chart before she looks up and runs to Stiles. Pulling him into her chest, squeezing him hard. 

And it hurts. It hurts that she’s alive, that his mom isn’t. That despite loving Melissa, she still isn’t his mom and that’s who he wants. His mom.

He flings his arms around her, pushes his face into her bosom and cries. Doesn’t fight the fat, ugly tears or the sobs that wrack his body. Everything Kira said flooding his mind the moment he felt even a little bit safe. 

_He died. He. Died._

Stiles feels his body shifting, hears Melissa’s shoes hit the floor as she push-crawls them onto a too small bed. She doesn’t let an inch come between them, just lets him wail against her. It feels like hours later but eventually his body stops producing tears and snots that stains his face and Melissa's scrubs. He refuses to move though, determined to soak in the small comfort Melissa's presences offers.

He feels a weight settle on the bed behind him, smells the unique combination of his dad's cologne and aftershave as strong arms wrap around the pair, sees hands cracked with wrinkles and dry from cold, winter air pull Melissa impossibly closer to Stiles, pull Stiles fully against the firm chest of the one person Stiles could never survive losing. But even still, Stiles refuses to move. Just stays sandwiched between the adults who've kept him whole, alive, his whole life.

He doesn't remember closing his eyes but his dad's soft voice whispering reassurances makes the perfect lullaby. 


	3. Wheelchair Life

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> not beta read. thanks for waiting, sorry I take forever to write.

It takes two months before Dr. Maheswaren signs discharge forms. The stay isn’t too terrible since Scott visits every day. Stiles knows he’s doesn’t have a right to be angry at his best friend - it’s not Scott’s fault that he can’t walk, that half of his friends died, that Derek is gone. But it’s easier being mad at Scott than facing the uncertainty that’s his future. Stiles knows Scott gets it, knows that their friendship will survive this bout of unfounded anger.

Still, it’s nice to be able to direct his frustrations at a source. Scott bares it remarkably easy - and it’s that blanket acceptance that makes Stiles forgive the new alpha, hugging his best friend after a particularly loud screaming match.

Scott drains a little of his pain before he leaves for his shift at Deaton’s animal clinic.

“You two are so fucking weird,” says the blonde beta that sometimes comes with Scott. He’s cocky but always looks so unsure of himself after he says something arrogant. He’s like Jackson-light and it makes Stiles uncomfortable to realize he misses that asshole too. Scott said Jackson and Lydia were living in Ireland, but it still feels like he lost them too.

“You saw nothing, young padawan,” Stiles says waving his hand at the boy. He’s still in high school and now that Stiles is 21 ( **Twenty-fucking-one** ) he can call the beta a boy. It may have something to do with the pinched look the teen gets Stiles says it.

“What?” Liam asks tilting his head all werewolves tend to do when they’re confused.

“Pad-a-wan,” Stiles says slowly. “From _Star Wars_.”

“Never seen it. Not a big fan of space stuff.”

“Never seen it,” Stiles practically screeches. “How is that possible. It’s Scott’s fault isn’t. That meatball still hasn’t seen it, has he?” He narrows his eyes, interrogating Liam is easy because the beta doesn’t like the attention.

“Ummm. Yes?”

Stiles takes a deep breath, ready to school this _child_ on the importance of Luke, Han and Leia. But before he can begin, his dad walks in pushing a wheelchair ahead of him. He’s wearing a thick Beacon Hills Police Department windbreaker and loose blue jeans. Must be fresh off a shift. Dr. Maheswaren trails behind the sheriff's steady gait. Stiles hasn’t seen her in anything except her doctor’s coat, blue-button up and khakis and this visit continues the pattern.

“You’re dismissed Liam,” the sheriff says, chuckling as the beta rushes out of the room.

Stiles rolls his eyes but it’s a fond gesture in nature. He may like Liam, but Stiles is not the kind of person to **not** tease his...pack.

“What’s up daddy-o? Doc?”

His dad pushes the wheelchair, aligning it next to the bed on Stiles’ right side. “Get in the chair,” he says, face oddly serious.

“I already had physical therapy today,” Stiles responds not moving. It’s well into the afternoon and Stiles knows he’ll be confined to the hospital bed for another 16 hours - excluding bathroom breaks of course.

“That’s nice. Now get in the chair.”

Stiles stares at his dad for a long moment before turning to look at Dr. Maheswaren, but as always, her face is a careful blankness of professionalism.

He shrugs. Even in the short time that he’s been in the hospital, Stiles has gotten used to getting in a wheelchair. He locks the wheels before gripping the handles. Turning around so his back faces the cushion, Stiles slides himself into the seat. Moving his legs is awkward and never fails to inspire reddened cheeks but Stiles drags them to fall on the feet rests. He exhales once, then unlocks the wheels and turns to face his visitors.

“Ta-da,” he says, accentuating his success with jazz hands.

“Hmmm,” Dr. Maheswaren hums. “I’m not one hundred percent convinced on this course of action but I believe you may be right Mr. Stilinski.

“Stiles,” she says, turning to face to him. “You’ve been progress remarkably, considering,” she waves her hand and Stiles can’t help but feel a spark of anger at the motion. “I’ll sign discharge papers, if you two,” her free hand flying up to point at both Stilinski men, “agree to daily PT and **frequent** check-ups.”

“Wait, what?” Stiles says the second she stops talking. “I’m going home?”

“Yeah, kid,” his dad says a little gruff. “I’m taking you outta here.”

Stiles can feel his smile threatening to engulf his face at the words. The very idea of leaving the hospital and washing the scent of disinfectant off makes him want to dance. He’s just starting to whoop and shake his arms when Dr. Maheswaren interrupts.

“Not so fast Mr. Stilinski. We’ll need to discuss expectations,” she says with a pointed look.

Stiles nods but he doesn’t care. He’s going home.

The paperwork takes a couple hours and Stiles needs help getting his pants on, but it doesn’t matter because he’s free. It’s dusk by the time Stiles is able to wheel himself to the cruiser waiting in the parking lot and Stiles can feel his body demanding rest despite the excitement coursing through his veins. 

The sight of his familiar green door feels so welcoming and comforting that Stiles is moved to silence of a few seconds. It doesn’t last long - he’s heckling as his dad takes forever to park, get out of the car, open the trunk and finally, finally put the newly purchased wheelchair in front of the open passenger door.

Stiles slides into the chair just like he did at the hospital but his arms become spaghetti noodles when he tries to propel himself forward.

“Let me,” his dad says softly, coming behind Stiles to push him up the path and into their home. “I know you should have stayed at the hospital longer, but it’s good to have you back under my roof again.”

There’s a stilled silence that Stiles has never felt with his dad, awkward like two strangers sharing a table at a crowded cafe. It was no where near this bad back when every other thing out of his mouth was a lie. Stiles clears his throat and pushes himself a little further into the house. 

He bumps the tiny table he’s mom put in the foyer, banging it into the wall causing his dad to swear.

“Shit. I forgot to move that.”

Stiles feels a tiny smile spread across his face. Mom always had a fit when Dad moved the purely decorative furniture piece - he’d threaten to junk it during fights and she’d always respond with a laugh saying she’d junk his face. It was funny until she stopped reacting to everything involving the Stilinski home.

But now that Stiles is in a wheelchair, the table is going to have to be moved - there isn't enough space to comfortably roll into the kitchen. The thought tugs at his heart but Stiles ignores that feeling, focusing on how different the house looks now. The kitchen is full, the dining room table and one chair having been moved into the room. The coffee maker and microwave are pulled out, resting on the edge of the counter instead of being nested along the wall. The convention oven is gone. So is the blender. And the coat rack. 

He wheels forward a little more, careful to not bump into anything. Looking into the living room, Stiles sees that that too has changed. The TV is pushed against the far wall and the couch is pulled back against the opposite wall. His dad’s lazy boy chair kitty-cornered next to the couch. The coffee table is gone and the DVD bookcase has been rearranged so all of Stiles’ favorite films are on the bottom two shelves and the sheriff's crappy cowboy movies are up on top.

It’s a crushing realization to understand that the changes are because his dad has planned on Stiles moving his wheelchair around their home. Stiles looks down at where his legs lay limp against the foot rests, one shoe slightly untied.

_This is permanent._

He turns to see his dad staring at him with such a strong look of desire to please that Stiles fights away the encroaching melancholy. “Movie night?” he asks, forcing a smile.

The sheriff nods once, both a confirmation to himself and to the suggestion. “You pick. I’ll order pizza.”

“Vegetarian.”

“Vegetables don’t belong on pizza,” his dad says, easily falling into the old fight. “We’re getting meat lovers and that’s final.”

Stiles rolls his eyes knowing they're going to have grilled chicken and pineapple pizza. Suppressing a sigh, Stiles rolls himself into the living room and over to the DVD case. He scans the titles, searching for an brainless action film, something classic so he doesn’t have to pay attention to the storyline.

“This one,” he says fingering the spine of _Independence Day_. Will Smith and Bill Pullman are hot enough that Stiles can just stare at their faces without having to follow the film. The Stilinski house has had a strict no talking rule since Stiles was five so his dad won’t notice if Stiles is a little too quiet. At least he hopes so.

“Really kid? We’ve seen that hundreds of times.”

“Yes really,” Stiles defends his choice but there’s no heat to his words. “It’s a classic. ‘In less than an hour, aircraft from here will’-”

“No,” his dad interrupts with a smile. “Your Pullman is terrible.” He grabs the DVD from Stiles and walks over to the TV and DVD player.

Without anything to do Stiles pushes himself to the couch and crawls onto it, rearranging his legs while the screen flashes bright blue for a second. Grabbing the old afghan, Stiles wraps it around his legs, making sure to tuck it under his toes as best he can. The PT lady had stressed to Stiles that since he’s lost nerve feeling he won’t be able to tell if his legs are getting cold until it’s too late. When he asked too late for what, she just shook her head and made him do more stretches. 

The screen cuts black for a second before the opening scene and Stiles relaxes into the couch. There’s so much work to be done, so many tasks that Stiles knows tomorrow is going to beyond any attempt at calm. But for tonight, he just closes and eyes and sleeps on the couch.


End file.
